"You see," continued Pierre, still formulating his ideas, "the constant care of a large crop of silkworms is too hard for my mother and Marie. We have been able to manage it one season, and we might even do it two; but to feel we must work as hard as that forever--it is not to be thought of. If we are to take up sericulture permanently we must have more help, and with the comparatively small margin of profit we are able to make we are not in a position to do that. When my father and uncle were at home it was a very different thing. Of course I have Josef, but he can do only the lightest part of the work. I am glad to do my share, more than my share; but I am only a boy, Father, and not so wise nor so strong as my father was. Nor have I his knowledge. If our crop of cocoons should fail some season either through my lack of skill or because of some unavoidable calamity, we should be without money on which to live. It would be terrible. The thought fills me with fear. Help me, Father. You are older than I. Give me your counsel. Do you think I am right, or only a coward?" "To face the truth is never cowardly, Pierre," answered the priest. "You reason well, my son. To take upon yourself in future the care you have borne this year is far too much for a lad. It is a work for several able-bodied men. That you and your mother and Marie have been able to do it even this once is little short of a miracle. Of course you have each thrown your entire heart and strength into it. Then, too, the season has been ideal. No calamities have befallen your crop. Nevertheless misfortunes do come. There are distempers that ravage the silkworms; bad weather that wrecks the mulberry foliage; a thousand possible accidents which at any moment may sweep away your income. Such a reverse would be a dire catastrophe to you and your family." The cure paused thoughtfully. "But if you were to sell the place," he went on a second later, "what would you do? Surely the sum you would receive for it, even if it was a generous one--a thing we can hardly expect in war time--would not be sufficient for you all to live upon." "I should not try to live here," answered Pierre promptly. "Long ago I made up my mind that if anything befell my father and my uncle I would persuade my mother and Marie to go with me to America." "America!" "It is not so far away." "It is at the other side of the world!" asserted the simple priest. Pierre laughed. "No, indeed, Father. America is but a ship's journey away. Besides we have relatives there. My mother's people are all at Paterson, New Jersey. My plan would be to take part of the money we get for our home and with it pay our passage to America. There I could find work at good wages, and take care of my mother and sister." Monsieur nodded silently. "All this," continued Pierre, "is in case my father is not found. You tell me he is missing. What does that mean, Father?"